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Wide In His Chains

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Under the cliff of

             winter clouds

his hands

             were born,

drunk on abstractions and

             a feeling muse.

Battleships soared through his

             ransacked-mind.

Impossible loneliness attacked like

            a vulture,

painting his jealous seasons

            morphine blue.

His was a tender style, loving equally

            the hideous and the brave.

He was punished for his ruthless poetry, exiled

            for his ecstasy-grip

Those hands were tendrils, latching on

            to what others feared.

His music drove on through

            bombshell screams

toward a prophetic morning,

            desired.

 

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Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Published in “New Mystics” May 2018

http://newmystics.com/lit/AllisonGrayhurst.html

Click to access AllisonGrayhurst-Poems4.pdf

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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